Sister
by bluekrishna
Summary: A companion piece to Justicar, showing Sister's past and written in her POV. Full of fear and defiance, a slave girl carves a place for herself in the arena. But one day, all that changed. Will she rise out of darkness? Or will terror of the unknown hold her bound to its wheel? Dark, grim. May be triggering for some. OC.
1. Chapter 1

Hope.

Her first clear memory. She remembered staring at the blood glistening on the end of her knife and feeling that feeling as it sliced through her little body, sharp as the steel in her hand. She didn't even know the word for it. She just stared into the middle distance as it roared in her blood, louder than the cheering adults around her. A bright counterpoint to all the vague and incomprehensible terrors that had filled her days before it.

She'd looked from her knife to the varren cur's carcass, dumbfounded. Then up around her to all the shouting, laughing faces. Faces that had, not minutes before, jeered and howled for _her_ blood. The rough hands that had thrown her in this tiny pit with the ravenous mongrel fell upon her, lifting her high. Later, she'd feel the blood streaming down her face from the flap of skin torn from her cheek, and the agony.

Panic pulled at her as she looked down from an untenable height, higher than she'd ever been. She saw money pass hands, heard the raucous mirth of the people whose expectations she'd confounded. She knew they'd wanted to see her pulled apart, like the other girls in her kennel that hadn't passed muster. Someone took the knife they'd given her as a joke away.

Something shifted, deep inside. Her fate, of which she had been just as sure as they, might not be so certain. And it had something to do with that feeling.

So, now, four years later, as she looked down at the blades in her hands, unblooded as yet, a trickle of it surged through her. Now she knew this feeling, though it still had no name that anyone would tell her. And it reminded her of that first memory every time.

"How do you know? Just where to cut them, I mean?" whispered 'Gan, his voice strange. It always turned odd-ish during the bouts. He crouched in her corner of this ramshackle box-turned-arena. The roar of the crowd, a crowd that got larger every time, kept anyone else from hearing, but the girl heard it well. She always listened when 'Gan spoke, whether he realized it or not.

She shrugged and eyed her opponent, a rangy vorcha scavenger someone had pulled off the street. Doubtless told that the path to freedom lay through her. She saw how the ribs stuck out, how it favored one leg, how fear had made it desperate. "Dunno. Jus' work it out, I guess."

How to describe something without the proper words? Up until she'd shown this curious talent and gotten the boss lady's attention, she hadn't even been allowed speech. None of the littles had.

Furthermore, she didn't understand it herself. How the weight and heft of the knives felt like extensions of her limbs. Nothing in their smooth and polished balance suggested otherwise. Swinging them felt as natural as breathing.

As did the shock of their edge slicing through the vorcha's belly, skin parting neatly from crotch to sternum. It screamed and thrashed about, trying to return the favor.

But the girl swayed from every swipe of gangrenous claw and used the pommel of her other knife to shatter the dagger-like teeth seeking her flesh. They rained down on her like glass. She felt their sting as they abraded her skin.

Very little blood sprayed her when she tore free of the vorcha's body cavity, her blade pulling a bit of intestine out in its wake. Her enemy's kind had a way of stopping themselves from bleeding out. This she'd learned from other battles. No matter. It clutched at its own entrails, trying to stuff them back in.

She watched with interest for a moment before swinging low and thrusting with all her strength into the side of one thorny knee. The one on the weak side. Tough hide resisted her child's might, but, with legs spread wide for leverage, she just managed to slide the knife hilt-deep into the joint. Fresh wails resounded in her ears, loud and piercing.

With a twisting, sawing motion, she rendered that knee worthless. The vorcha crumpled, clutching itself and writhing. She let go of the knife, left it stuck in that joint well and good. The scavenger tried to crawl away from her, but her bare foot on its throat stopped it. It could have heaved her off if not for the fear of her she saw in its eyes, so huge and terrified.

She looked away, avoiding looking into eyes that seemed to know things she did not. Unsafe to venture there and start wondering. She'd wait until it lay dead, as she'd waited before countless times. Dead and empty. She was comfortable with empty.

Instead, her gaze searched out the thin spot on the creature's skull. Every skull had one, a place where a sharp bit of steel could glide through, sweet and neat. Her core tightened as she raised her blade for the felling blow.

Down she stabbed, finding the center of that soft place. All noise from her enemy ceased. It went limp under her. She gave the knife a brain-scrambling wiggle to make sure, then stood, leaving her weapons imbedded in vorcha flesh. 'Gan never let her keep them anyway.

Every voice in the underground hall lifted in adulation of her brutality. She let it warm her, as well as the thought of her reward for having survived yet again.

"'Gan," she called, reaching out for him.

He came to her, a tall, angular shape, much like many of the others. A turian, he'd told her. That's his kind's name. 'Gan lifted her to a shoulder and again, she felt that odd vertigo at being so high. Always too high, or lower than everything else. It seemed the world only had extremes in perspectives to show her.

'Gan collected his winnings with many a hearty handshake and slap on the back. The girl clung to his cowl and fringe as the crowd jostled and crowed. She shook with exhaustion now that the heat and furor of her blood began to cool. A long day of fighting, a long day of killing those who would kill her given half a chance. But she did her level best to never give them even so much as an inch.

Nevertheless, some came close. Her body testified to that. Scars ran the length and breadth of her. She could name every single one, where it came from, how long it took to heal. Here a lucky stab from another slave, there a ring of puckered skin where a salarian had bit her in an attempt to make her let go of his prongs. She still remembered how she'd shattered his jaw with the points of her greaves in outrage.

'Gan's voice pulled her from her reverie. "Well, little sister, how do we fare?"

"Got splingers in m'hand from breakin' his teef."

"We better have Talq look at'em. Vorcha don't much mind eating nasty dead things. Like really dead. Even if they're ripe and runny."

"Ew," she stated, with little actual revulsion.

"Yeah, could catch something. Wouldn't like your hand to turn funny colors and fall off, would you?"

She made a noncommittal noise in her throat, knowing he didn't really expect her to hold up her half of the conversation. 'Gan just liked to talk. She didn't mind listening.

"You did well today. Had that pack of terran canines chasing their own tails. That krogan kid was more bark than bite. I bet ol' Pascal's hurting for the loss to his stable of contenders. I really thought that vorcha would be harder. Seeing as how you're just a little; five and all." 'Gan laughed at that, for he'd been doctoring her paperwork for years, keeping her younger than reality. And the bosses didn't much care, as long as the cash kept flowing.

Talq met them at the door, the batarian medic having snuck out for a smoke. He sneered at the sight of them, but gestured them to go on in before him. "Always you bring the beast here. Why can't you take her to the lower wards' sawbones where she won't stink up my clinic?"

"Because you made a deal with the Corbies to service whoever we bring you, slave or not." 'Gan's voice turned sharpish, a warning the man should heed. Bad things always happened to those who didn't, in the girl's experience. She'd always been careful never to be the target of that tone.

"At least clean that blood off her before she contaminates the whole building."

With perfunctory aloofness, 'Gan stripped off the slave's tattered armor and set her in a long basin with a hose. The water, cold and smelling of chemical sanitizers, rushed over her skin. She shivered as she watched the different colors of blood streak and swirl into the drain. The water burned in her cuts.

'Gan tugged on her hair. "Getting a bit long. Going to have to take my knife to it again soon."

She nodded, though she didn't much care either way. As long as it stayed out of her eyes. She had to see. A threat could come from anywhere. A policy that saved her from the meat grinder on many an occasion.

"Up on the table, little sister." 'Gan helped her with one gloved hand.

Talq hissed in outrage. "You should not show such regard for a slave. It'll give her ideas-"

"How 'bout I do as I please, and you do as I say?"

The batarian grumbled, but subsided, pulling out his long tweezers to yank loose the bits of tooth from the girl's bloody hand. A mite rough, but he got the job done quick enough, if only to get her and 'Gan out of there. She bit her lip to keep from crying out.

As the medic wrapped her hand in gauze, she looked up at her handler, pleading with him with her eyes. He knew what boon she wanted, no, needed.

A strange emotion she couldn't name ghosted over his face before he turned to Talq. "Pack up some full-spectrum antibiotics and immuno-boosters, too."

As he always did, Talq snorted and asked, "Why?"

"Because I have money," snapped the turian, mantling in fury. Talq raised both hands in surrender and turned to do as 'Gan asked. The girl nearly smiled at his cowardice. Only a warning look from her handler stopped her from chiming in with a cutting barb.

She clutched the small box as 'Gan carried her away from the clinic. At the kennels, he set her on her feet with a grumbled, "Not always going to spend my winnings on you and your fool ends."

"I's know." Her feet held her fascination. He was good to her, to give her this much. Guilt at even asking for it to begin with plagued her. She risked a glance up at him.

"Hide it or risk having it taken away by Mogul or one of the other guards," he admonished, mandibles coming together at the tip in consternation. "If you were smart, you'd cut her loose. Slaves ain't got no family."

She'd no sooner do that than fly away from here on wings made of cobwebs. But she could never tell him that. He wouldn't understand it even if she had the words to explain it. Or maybe he would and she'd see that awful pity in his eyes that drew blood every time she saw it.

He turned on his heel to leave, then paused. Without turning back, he said, "Big op pulled through today. All the boys came back this morning."

The girl nodded though he couldn't see it. With that, he left.

She thought on his words as she headed deeper into the compound. They'd meant, _Successful mercs are a rowdy, 'fun' seeking bunch. Hide until it runs its course._

She knew this well, for it was in one of these episodes that twenty girl brats had been thrown into the varren runs. Of which, she'd been the last. The only survivor of that brood of culls. Other litters had come and gone, but she'd been the only one to rise out of those runs alive and killing.

So, she ventured into the area most hidden from casual inspection and hunkered down to wait it out. Occasional shouting and screaming punctuated long, tense silences. Dozens of booted feet trooped past her sanctuary, accompanied by the rough language of soldiers.

Finally sated, they left. The girl took up her box again and crept out into the yards, past the red lights that marked the entrance to the body-slave enclosures. A lot of muffled crying told the slave that the soldiers had once again left their mark on the women who resided here.

She slid into a room she knew well and closed the door behind her. The woman in the bed, naked and sweaty, lifted herself up a fraction. She smiled as their eyes met and gestured her closer. The girl drifted that way, the box held before her like an offering.

The woman opened and closed her mouth on silent words. Silent because her vocal cords had been removed. She touched the girl on the head, running her fingers through short, spiky hair.

The girl sat on the edge of the rumpled bed and whispered, "I brought med'cines. I knows y'been sick. Ant-bot-icks and imm-immuno-" She gave up, frustrated by her clumsy tongue.

The woman took it from her and set it aside. She took the girl's hands and squeezed them in her frail palms. The younger took in the pallor of those hands, the spots and bumps that had started to arise on her skin. A sick fear rolled through her and she trembled. She looked up into the woman's eyes and breathed, "Mama."

Her mother's mouth framed a word she could not hear. How she wanted to hear it. Ask all the questions that hounded her and get some answers.

When the woman held out her shaky arms, the girl didn't hesitate flinging herself into them, burying her face into the side of a fevered neck. Wetness rolled down her cheek and for a moment, she thought she was weeping. Then she realized they streamed from her mama's eyes. The girl shivered, at thoughts that had no name, no true shape because no one had ever taught her what they could mean.

She only knew that her victories meant better food, better care for she and her mother. She fought hard, killed whoever they sent against her, to carve herself a little leeway. 'Gan called her prideful. She did not deny it. For she had survived and in every death that bought her and her mama a little more life, lay a pebble of defiance.

And someday, that pile of pebbles might buy her something.


	2. Chapter 2

"Do you know me, child?" A pleasant voice, warm and smooth, deep yet feminine.

The girl did not look up from her feet, and nodded. The owner of that voice had been attendant on many a pit fight. 'Gan might be her handler, but the girl knew she was this woman's property.

"You may speak."

"Bossilba."

"Boss. _Silva_. Yes." The blue woman laughed, light and sweet. "Oh, you are precious, small one. Come. Sit here that we may speak."

She obeyed, climbing onto the dais and pulling herself onto an armor-clad knee. She flinched when a blue hand rose to cup her chin, forcing her face to tilt upwards.

"Look at me." She met icy blue eyes set in an alien face with her own and trembled at the emptiness there behind the cruel humor. A . . . hollowness that mirrored the void she felt in herself. Silva smiled a twisted smile and said, "What a savage you are, with all those nasty scars marring that pink flesh. But not . . . unlovely, as it were. I'm surprised you were culled. Someday, you might be something to look at. Would you like that? Becoming a body-slave? Some concubines rise to great heights."

The girl made her eyes wide and guileless, though her guts writhed like snakes. Images of what became of most of those women flashed through her memory. No, she would never want to be like them. Not ever. Silva seemed to take this to mean the slave didn't understand the question, much to her hidden relief. The girl saw the disdain for her ignorance in that flinty stare.

Turning to the girl's handler, the blue woman said, "Much fortune has found its way into your pockets since taking over as this animal's handler, has it not, Keigan?"

"She is a strong fighter, capable beyond her age and size."

"Oh? Could she kill an adult, do you think? Could we pit her against seasoned gladiators?"

'Gan started, but the girl saw him hide his apprehension behind a stoic mask. "She's valuable. Her value will only increase with time. I don't see the use in throwing her and the profits she will one day win you away."

"Well, slave, what do you think? Do you think you could kill a full-grown fighter?"

Hesitating but a little, she spoke, "D'pends, I guess."

The hand petting her hair clenched cruelly. The girl bit back a whimper. "Depends on what?"

"If'n I gots the drop on'em. Or if I get a chance to look at'em for a bit." She didn't relax as the hand resumed its petting.

'Gan chimed in with a measured statement, "She has a way of seeing . . . opportunities."

"Hm. Really?" Silva set her on her bare feet. "Show me. With Keigan over there."

The girl's guts sank as she approached her handler. He eyed her with something like worry flickering in his stare. She walked around him, letting her instinct run her mouth, "He's tall. Fast. Sharp. But some'ut happen'd to this arm once," she tapped his left elbow as she continued, "makes it stiff. It don't move like it's s'posed to. I'd stay on th'side and work it painful, til he can't move it no more.

"Then I'd slice here," she said, touching his inner thigh. Through his underarmor, she felt his leg twitch. "Bleed him weak. And dance'em in a circle. Til he losed his feet."

Silva, having leaned forward in eagerness, prompted, "And then?"

The slave gestured for 'Gan to kneel, which he did with profound reluctance coloring his posture. She touched the place behind his mandible where his aural canal lay. "Then m'knife finds his brains through his ear hole."

'Gan watched her close, but wary, like he didn't know her any more. She grit her teeth against the pang that flared in her chest. She wrenched her eyes from his and turned to Silva. The asari clapped her hands once in delight, a warm laugh on her painted lips. "Splendid. I like her. Come here, girl. Stand before me."

She trotted back up to Silva and stood, eyes lowered like a proper slave.

"You have quite the talent for seeing strengths and weaknesses, child. Do you think you could use it to . . . find others in my stockpens with a similar violent bent? Other slaves like you?" It took the girl a few minutes to puzzle out what her master meant.

And when she did, astonishment made her lift her gaze to Silva's hungry leer. "Y'want I should . . . pick the ones wiv a bit a'fight, Bossilba?"

"Let's just say, we asari take the long view and if we start small," started Silva, tussling the girl's hair and giving a little hum of amusement, "we might build something grand."

"Can't see how anyone'd want to watch kids brawl in the pit," grumbled the hitherto silent Mogul, a mountain of a krogan that stood off to one side leaning against a wall. The slave recalled seeing him stalk to and fro in the pens, counting his boss' assets, keeping his eye on her interests.

"Oh, Mogul, there's a little money in everything. Something so . . . perverse will attract an interesting class of twist. The jaded ones with too much money and a bottomless thirst for something different." Silva sat back, studying the girl. "Keigan, I want you to take this girl around to my other operations and get her some seasoning against bigger, tougher slaves. Find instructors without scruples against teaching little girls to kill with more, hm, grace. At the same time, I want her looking over new stock. Find me a foundation to build our venture."

The girl wanted to look 'round to 'Gan to ask what this meant, but didn't dare take her eyes off the dangerous blue lady. She heard the turian step forward and lifted her arms. 'Gan scooped her up and set her on a broad shoulder. He said, "C'mon, time to go pack. We've got a lot to do before we leave this rock."

"Leave?" _But who'd take care of Mama?_ Alarmed, she swung her gaze back to Silva and blurted, "What'll _I_ get?"

Silva smiled, but instead of softening, it only made the woman seem harder. "You require something?"

'Gan pinched her leg cruelly, but she shook off his warning to stay silent and continued, "I's do this for you, I wants something."

"Is this a negotiation? Mogul, are we negotiating with slaves now?" Silva turned to her lieutenant with raised brow.

The krogan snorted a laugh.

The girl, clinging to her caretaker, looked down at Silva and begged with every fiber of her being. "M'mama, she ain't doin' so good. Sick-like."

'Gan took a deep shocked breath and sighed a whispered, "Oh, girl, you've done it now."

She didn't know what that meant, but she saw something in Silva's face that gave her an inkling. Something terrifying that gloated like a spider, fat from eating bugs in its web. The asari steepled her hands before her lips. "And what would the slave have me do in exchange for her service?"

"Doctorin', she needs med'cines. I's do e'erything the best I can. I's finds the hardest fighters for 'rena. I make'em hungry f'it." The girl swallowed, thinking this the longest she'd ever spoken at once.

"Such pride. Arrogance. Like I couldn't find a dozen others to take your place."

"None what are right here and now. And ready." Her little chin firmed in resolution. "None what won't costs more. I's just one and a little, at that."

"It _is_ convenient. Lower overhead equals a higher profit-margin. And all you want is that I make sure your dam gets seen to?" Silva seemed to ponder it, but the girl had more the idea that the woman just wanted to leave her to dangle for a bit. Then she turned to Mogul and queried, "Do we know which slave is her mother?"

"The concubine once called Celeste. The one we had to-" The krogan tapped his throat, "silence."

The asari swung an indulgent smile back to the slave, "Then it's a deal. Don't disappoint me."

"Thank you, master." She bowed as low as she could from her perch, all humility, all gratitude. _Celeste, my mama had a name and it's Celeste!_

'Gan strode from the room at a pace brisker than she'd ever seen. His stick-like legs jerking one step after another. He didn't speak at all, just veered to the left as they reached the barracks. When they got to his spare room, he set her on his bunk and starting filling a dufflebag with essentials.

He didn't look at her and that made her increasingly nervous, until she could stand it no longer. "I's sorry, 'Gan."

The turian froze, then straightened. His gaze found her then just as quickly shot away, finally resting on a spot over her shoulder. Then, he heaved a huge sigh, as though defeated. "You just gave her all the leverage she'll ever need to keep you down at heel, do you know that?"

He sat on the floor next to the bunk and cradled his head in his hand. The girl put her hand on his sleek fringe. "What's that mean?"

"It means she'll never let you go now. You'll live to bring her killers for her stables and someday, when you're tired and too beat to fight any more, you're going to die in that arena." A feeling that this made him sad somehow. "I'd hoped . . .."

"Hoped?" A word never heard before. She wanted to ask what_ it_ meant, too.

But he took it to mean he should elaborate. "I wanted her to see your worth outside the arena someday. The potential gain to her mercenary forces, I thought, would be immense. We might've beat back the competing companies. I might've talked her into freeing you."

Free? She knew the concept, though only in the abstract sense. Why would she want it?

"But, no, you just had to go piquing her interest. You just had to be too good and too _proud_ to slide beneath notice." 'Gan turned his head and took in her bafflement. He laughed, a short bitter bark. "What do _you_ know about subterfuge, hmm? Not enough to be less than what you are, right?" He stood with a groan, stretching out his bad arm, hissing when it popped.

She could only repeat, "'Gan, I's sorry."

"No, but you will be if you ever fail her. And so will your mother. She'll be a hostage to your success, and ever under scrutiny herself. I hope she survives the attention. All because you couldn't keep your mouth shut." 'Gan could talk pretty when he wanted to, or ugly it up to fit in. In many ways, he'd taught her how to be a survivor. To adapt.

A chill rolled up her back at that. "Can I's go see her?"

"No time. We leave on a chartered flight in twenty." 'Gan turned to dress her in travel gear, something citizens wouldn't look at twice. A low hood concealed her scarred face. He lifted her back to his shoulder and they left the slave compound. He laughed again, a lighter sound now that they had it at their back. "Would you really stick me in the ear and scramble my brains, little sister?"

"Silly 'Gan, only if you deserved it," she cajoled and by his answering smirk, she knew that he knew she'd never do it. Only he cared for her when all her previous handlers had beat her, locked her in small spaces. Only he worried for her future. "Might have a mite a'trouble even finding your brains."

"_I_ don't have any brains, she says. Sheesh." 'Gan poked her in the side. As they made their way to the tube station, the mercenary said, "Tell me about the M-3 Predator."

She grinned at his attempt to lighten the mood by starting their game. "The M-3 Pred-ator's a reliable, ac-accu-rate heavy pistol. It are-"

"Is," he corrected.

"-_is_ manu-factoried by-"

"Manufactured." So stern, but warm as well.

She harrumphed at his interruptions, but continued, "-manu-_fak_-chured by Elanus Risk Control. It fires semi-auto-mactic bursts that-Hey, 'Gan, how come you only teached me about little guns and not your 'ssault rifle?"

"Taught. And this is more vocabulary lesson than anything. Get you talkin' better. I doubt they'll ever let you have a firearm in the pit." As they got on the transit module, he nodded to all the citizens that eyed him and his curious burden. "And plus, you never know. Silva was right about one thing."

"Whazzat?"

"Start small." He laughed. She laughed, too, though she didn't really understand the joke. "Continue. What else do you remember about Predators?"

If passersby wondered why a little human girl might be with a grown turian in mercenary armor, or why she was talking about the selling points of sidearms, 'Gan turned their eye aside with a pointed glare.


	3. Chapter 3

"Ruin't," she stated, looking at the taller girl with a speculative eye. Pinkish eyes set in a delicate and pretty face covered in white scales stared through her and into nothing. Nothing the little fighter _wanted_ to see anyway, she felt sure. A drell, 'Gan had called this one, well, all of them. The whole shipment consisted of these new aliens. She'd never seen one before and even among the others with their jewel-like greens and blues and oranges, this one had stuck out. Well, this and the other one. That one shot her a look of pure malice from his twin's side. She turned her attention on him fully. "This one, though . . .."

"The boy? He's skinny. Looks like a stiff wind would knock him over." 'Gan looked over the datapad in his hand with a hum. "I really think we found better in the last batch."

"We'll take couple from there, too, but," she mused, as she tried to put into words what she meant. They looked thin, yes. Malnourished, like they'd never had a decent ration, but something about the boy's eyes told her he might be made of sterner stuff. What the female drell might have been before the rapers got to her, she might never know now.

The fighter tapped her lower lip with a finger and looked down to where the sib's hands joined.

Something about that pulled at her, though she didn't know why. Rolling her shoulder, she finished her thought, "He's hard. But young 'nuff to learn how ta . . . how ta _bend_." Obedience didn't come easy to the ones who used to be citizens.

The guards started to pull the pair apart. The boy squawked and fought, but their greater strength finally succeeded in breaking the twins away from each other.

The young human fighter reached out and grasped 'Gan's forearm, gaping as the female drell suddenly came to life. 'Gan looked on with her as the drell's fingers flexed into claws that raked at the guards wherever flesh lay exposed. They cried out at the unexpected assault from a girl they thought comatose, and they turned to combat her insane flailing.

The human girl gasped at this turn and a grin found its way on her face. "Maybe not so ruin't. Take'em both."

Bound and subdued, the twins were led elsewhere. 'Gan looked at her askance. "Both of them?"

"Yeah, girl get culled otherwise. She had the dead eyes already."

"Mercy? They're going to face worse in the arena than culling."

"No, they'll do good. Good 'nuff to keep Silva smiling."

"I don't see how you can be so sure. They're both free-born. Not to mention they're albinoes. Weak eyes, weak constitutions."

How to tell him that she saw nothing there that could be called weakness? That the tie between them would keep them strong and alive? She didn't have the words to speak it just as she meant it. "Fights'em together. You'll see. Plus, they'll make a pretty pair covered in blood."

'Gan shrugged. For he knew as well as she that she hadn't guessed wrong yet. She reached up and ran a finger over her scars. The one that varren had left and the many others that succeeded it. "Glad I's not pretty like that girl. I'us wish we'd got here before those bad'uns got to her."

"They didn't expect us to pick through their catch. That girl was going to be culled anyway. Pretty or no." 'Gan didn't look up from his list, though his voice had gone a little sour.

"I's know. Freeborns is only good for labor and mining. Body-slaves and hand-servants is best when they's slave-bred." Now, 'Gan looked at her, startled that she knew so much. She liked surprising him. "Makes sense. Can't trust'em to serve all close-like without tryin' to stick a knife in."

"Too true." The turian shrugged again and went back to his task.

"Why's all these look . . . droopy an' all?" She gestured around to the many pens and the haggard people therein.

"They come straight from Rakhana and there ain't nothing there but sand and misery. Probably be overjoyed to have a decent water supply."

Funny. They didn't look happy. If that furious anger she saw in their huge, black eyes told truth. "Maybe."

"You're sleeping in the paddock tonight. I have an engagement in town. A little recreation." That meant he planned to meet up with a girl, maybe a whore, maybe another merc.

"Okay." She didn't like it, but what could she do? A slave did what she was told.

* * *

Released into the corral of littles, she looked around. Thin, wan faces turned to her in fear. She reflected nothing back as she walked to where the rations lay on a low table. Picking out her portion, two protein bars and a drink, she turned at the sound of someone trying to sneak up on her.

The pale snake boy glared down at her, his pink eyes glinting in fury. His light tenor rolled out, sandy and harsh, "This is the one. She's a slave, but she walks with that tall turian, giving orders."

In that voice, she almost imagined what a desert might be. She looked up at him in mild interest. Around them, the other slaves tittered and hissed. She ignored them. "I's a slave, yeah. Like you'uns."

The drell struck out, a wild swing that the girl didn't even bother to dodge. It missed anything vital by a mile, colliding only with her hand, but her food hadn't been so lucky. She looked down at her ruined protein bars and felt annoyance prickle her like nettles. The boy hissed, "I'm no slave!"

"Yeah, 'cuz the bars and cages don't mean shit." Sarcasm filled her words with venom. She speared the drell with a pointed stare. "You's property now. Deal wiv it."

"You're as bad as _the slavers!"_ He launched himself at her, hands reaching for her throat. She swayed back from those talons in a smooth, circular motion and when her head came back around, she used it to bludgeon him. Right in the crotch.

He went down onto his knees, gasping like a fish out of water, clutching himself. She planted a foot in his chest and kicked him over onto the ground. He lay curled into a ball. She stood over him and said, quiet, but implacable, "Y'think 'cuz you're taller 'n me that you's can look down and spit. But you's just a little, like all the rest. Like me. Only I finded me a way to stand a little taller."

She looked around to the others. "You ain't pretty or strong, you get culled. You ain't got no other use, you get culled. Lots and lots of littles get culled. But this's a thing even littles can learn to do. Killin' ain't hard and dyin's even easier. So, which a'those do you wanna be doin'?"

And, because it seemed that fire in the boy's eyes hadn't dimmed to her satisfaction, she knelt one knee on his chest and sneered. "Took me all a'three seconds to drop you. I coulda finished and felt better for not having you to be sharin' bedspace a'with. But I'll tell you some'ut: You come after me in the dark and I'll tear your sib's guts out and make you eat every stinky, ropy inch."

A sick, falling feeling accompanied those words, like something deep on the inside stood aghast at her cruelty. She shook it off. For survival's sake, she had to be hard. Hard as nails. Hard as . . . as _fuck. _She stood once more. "You wanna fight? Find me in the 'rena. Butcher me proper, if you find the balls to try."

She scooped up the remains of her food and stuffed it in her mouth, chewing it slow and licking every dirty crumb off her digits. All the while, she never took her eyes off him. Swallowing, she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. "But you better learn some'ut 'tween now and then, 'cuz you don't stand any sort of chance as of now. Believe me?"

The boy, cowed now under her arctic glare, nodded.

"Then say it," softly said, 'cuz she never had to speak loud to get her point across. Not when she was the one standing and he the one sat on his ass on the plas-crete.

"I-I believe you."

"Good." The others gave her a wide berth as she stalked to the corner of the cage, where all the threadbare blankets lay in a pile. Wrapping herself in the least moth-ridden, she sat with her back jammed in the corner. Her drink in one fist, she sipped at it in deep thought.

She missed her spot at the end of 'Gan's bunk. She missed the comfort she found in cleaning his gear and his guns. Would that he'd just left her in his room. Impossible, though, slaves, even compliant ones, never went without supervision, except trustees. House slaves and hand-servants specially trained and conditioned to be docile as sheep.

'Gan called them 'trust-mes', usually with a scornful laugh.

She smiled at the thought of her handler, though she felt a spark of resentment still for his abandoning her to go whoring.

"What are you smiling about?" High, bell-like, but still carrying the soft grit of her sib's. The little fighter shifted a bit to let the taller drell girl sit next to her.

"Thinking of 'Gan. Wonderin' if he's havin' fun." _Without me. _She bit her tongue against saying that last aloud.

"'Gan is your master?"

She laughed. "_Silba's_ the boss, master of you and I and all the rest. 'Gan's my handler."

"Handler?" Nothing in the drell's demeanor suggested the hot rage that had been in her twin's.

"Yeah, keeps me clean-ish. Gets me training. Makes sure I stay sharp."

"Is 'Gan to be our handler, too?"

"Maybe, but I doubts it. Heard of some taking on two, but never three. Too much to handle, maybe." The human girl hummed in amusement. "Can't fight good an' expect to stay good without a good handler."

Silence reigned for a time. Then, the girl said, "Why you's talkin' to me anyway? Your sib, he don't like me too well."

The drell sighed. "Kale has been angry since the day he was born. He didn't see what you did for me. For us."

She stared at her fellow slave with her pale scales and commented, "Mayhap you should find some'ut to get angry about, too. Keep you alive longer."

"How old are you?"

"Se-five." Best not to tell her the truth. Could get revealed to the wrong people. "How old are you?"

"Eleven. I can't believe you're five. You seem so . . . old." The drell looked at her with wonder. "Are the arenas bad?"

"Fair bit. Gotta do ugly things to stay breathing."

"It's gotta be better than-" she stopped, taking a deep hitching breath.

The human girl patted her on the knee. "S'okay, I know. M'mama's a body-slave. That's 'con-cu-bine' in citizen talk."

"How can she stand-?" Horror colored the drell's voice.

"Gotta survive, right? Be useful or get ground into 'burger for the varren." She sniffed, the fear of that long since evaporated. "I ain't never been-you know, but at least, ways I think it, in the pit, you can give a bit a'what you get. Maybe more and end up the one braggin'."

That brought a light to the drell's otherwise dull and unhappy gaze. "You can give a bit of what you get."

Strange how that light seemed to warm her. "Yeah, that's it."

The drell smiled, and turned a grateful look on her. "The Elders say: If Arashu deems this to be our fate, then we must make the most of it."

The fighter smiled a crooked smile, and said, with a comical lilt, "Oh, I dunno. Seems fate ain't so final, sometimes."

Her cagemate giggled behind her hand, then said, "What's your name?"

"Ain't got one. Yours?"

"Medea."

Envy touched her for a second, but only a second. "Hey, Medea . . .."

"Yeah?"

"What's an albinoes?"

She smiled to hear the drell laugh. Then laughed herself and marveled at how their voices together made a pretty sort of music.

Perhaps the scaly female with the shattered look and soulful gaze wouldn't stay ruined forever. The human girl pressed a hand to her chest and felt that sting there again. That warm, yet painful welling sensation, an emotion she still could not name. Odd that she hadn't had to kill anyone to feel it this time.


	4. Chapter 4

"I've heard just as much about it as you, little sister. Stop pestering me." 'Gan leaned over his stack of datapads with a grumble for insolent slaves.

"But s'been months now. I's just wanna know if she's alright. If the doctorin' did any good." The girl bounced around his desk, unable to hold in the anxiety any longer.

"We'll see when we get there. The raiding season is almost done and thanks to you," the turian said, narrowing his eyes, "I have _ever_ so much more work to do."

"But, 'Gan-"

"Enough!" he snarled, reaching out to grasp her by the arm. She squeaked, then felt a hot rush of embarrassment in her cheeks. When was the last time she'd let such a helpless noise escape her? 'Gan gave her a shake. "I've got a hundred new fighters to find people to handle and train. Not exactly a simple task, given even most mercs won't hold with pitting children against children. I'm stripping our black ops cadres to make it happen. Those twisted bastards will do anything for enough credits. I've got enough to think about without adding your sick dam to the list, who I frankly couldn't give less of a rat's ass about. _And neither should you!"_

She reeled back in the face of his roar, afraid of him for perhaps the first time. "She's m'ma-"

"So fucking what? Do you not _see_ how that makes her situation all the more tenuous? She's _your_ mother and you care about what happens to her. Too many people know that as it is. If they wanted, they could spit you on that caring and make you writhe and twist in agony." The turian took in her terror and let go of her arm, giving her a little shove. He looked away then and rubbed his eyes. "The only way to keep the ones you care about safe is to not care about anyone."

The girl watched him for a moment, then said, "Even you?"

'Gan jumped, then stared at her hard with an unreadable emotion making his face all pinched and tight. Finally, he said, "Especially me."

She subsided into troubled silence, dropping into a crouch. Hugging her knees to her aching chest, she felt like the floor might open up and swallow her in darkness. Her mouth opened and closed several times before she found words to try to explain it. "Feels like . . . when that varren first came f'me. Like I dunno what I done to deserve it other than be . . . alive. Like I ain't never going to know and all I gots is the fear of tomorrows."

The turian paused in his work and reached down to ruffle her hair. "It's called despair."

_Despair. _It's that other also scary feeling, only inverted. Upside-down like when she stood on her head and looked out at a world without reason, without what logical rules she'd pieced together in her few years of trying to figure it all out.

What 'Gan said, about not caring about her mama, she gave it much thought and tried, because she always tried to do what 'Gan said. He was good to her, even if he didn't care. When she tried to take those feelings and squish them, however, they just slid through her mental 'fingers'.

Then it occurred to her that no one said she couldn't just lie about it. No one had to know that she cared about anyone. She could keep it secret and maybe that would keep them from the harm she brought.

She looked at her handler with this new understanding. Maybe he did care then. Maybe all his hard work in keeping her alive meant he cared whether or not she did. Only he couldn't ever say it and make himself or her vulnerable.

It only followed then that she should do the same. It might be too late to help her mama, now that Silva had her hooks in, but no one else had to be threatened. Not 'Gan. Not the littles she'd helped to survive and find a place for themselves.

'Gan looked up from his work to see her staring at him. "What?"

"Nuffin'." Yes, she cared. Whether or not she should seemed a moot point. She had an inkling that once caring started, one might as well try to breathe space as stop it. But it could be hidden. It could be tucked away far from the light and other people's cruel probing. "M'hungry."

The turian sighed in vexed exasperation, but his hands told a different story. They closed down whatever work he might be doing and set the datapads in order. 'Gan stood, stretching. "Let's go out into the city, then. Find something good and far too greasy."

"None a'that dextro stuff what tastes like snot, yeah?"

He rumbled a laugh in his funny two-tone voice. "I think I must have a completely different set of taste buds than you."

"Well, yeah, you're a turian. Ob-obvi-uss-" She held her arms up for him to lift her, which he did.

"Obviously."

"That." She patted his fringe from her usual perch on his shoulder. "Silly 'Gan."

"If I'm silly, then you must be ridiculous."

"Maybe so. Been laughed at plenty before." She drummed her little fingers on his plated head and hummed. "Maybe someday, they won't be much for laughing at little me any more."

"I get the feeling you might be right." The turian's stride took them out of the ship's cargo bay and out into a city. "It's good to have some ambition. A goal to work toward."

It felt odd to not have the hum of decking under her, a thing she could even feel through 'Gan's feet. Only since these trips with 'Gan had she ever been on a planet, feeling the wind, fresh and free of the ozone burn of CO2-scrubbers. The first time she'd glimpsed a sky, she'd stood under it amazed for what felt like forever. At its colors. At its bigness. She'd never felt smaller. But it hadn't made her afraid. It made her . . . not-afraid. Like winning in arena made her not-despair.

She really needed to find words for these things.

* * *

Numb, she could only look around at the room in shock. Empty of everything familiar, it now housed someone else. Someone new. Someone not her mother.

'Gan stood at the door, silent and still as a statue, his face hard and emotionless. When she looked up at him with wild questions on her lips, his cold stare made them die unspoken. The turian spoke to the new resident, a concubine with a painted sort of beauty, "Get out."

The slave scampered to obey, all but slamming the door behind her in her haste.

Four months. Her mama had died four months ago, while she and 'Gan had hopped from planet to space station to ship and back none the wiser.

"She was too far gone, child." That voice, so smooth and warm, made her jump with its sudden arrival. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw 'Gan do the same. Turning on leaden feet, the girl faced her master. She just kept herself from flinching as Silva's hand came down to cradle her chin. The asari looked down with a soft conciliatory smile that didn't touch her eyes. "We did all we could do, but in the end, her sickness overwhelmed her."

Shaking, the girl felt moisture gather in her eyes, and she tried to will them back, but the hot slide of tears down her cheeks told her she'd failed. The world went all blurry as she stared up at Silva. "Med'cines didn't work?"

The asari used a thumb to wipe her tears away. "Doctors might find a way to treat many things, but some . . . troubles resist treatment."

Something in the way Silva said 'troubles' prodded a waking suspicion in the girl. As did the pointed look the asari threw her. The girl bit her lip to hold back any unwise words.

Silva continued, "You've done so well in my service, child, I wish we had found a way to save your dear maman. But every cloud has a silver lining." Did she seem a bit more . . . satisfied than she ought? Was that gloating spider peeking its head out to drink up the girl's pain? "Now, you can concentrate on your efforts. That's what she would have wanted, surely. To know her little girl had done so much to strengthen my organization. And when I profit, everyone profits."

Stunned, the girl went rigid. Silva patted her on the head with a sympathetic smile and turned on one high heel, striding in confident arrogance out of the room and out of sight.

The girl's mouth went dry. A hot feeling pounded at her brains. Like a fever, confusing, only mixed with the beginnings of rage and shame amid the chaos. It built and built until she felt certain her head might pop and paint the walls with grey and red gore.

All at once, it burst and within it, something darker lurked. It seized hold of her limbs and made her tear around the room, looking for anything. Anything left of the woman who birthed her. Her hands tore up bedding and overturned drawers, looking for any lasting remnant.

Nothing. They'd even changed the mattresses. It left her cold and empty. Wearied beyond belief, the girl threw herself at the floor, sobbing in earnest, her little shoulders bowing in utter defeat.

Something under the bed grabbed her attention and her weeping stilled, her whole body stilled.

"Little sister-" 'Gan started to ask, but she silenced him with a wave of her hand.

Careful, like it might disappear if she took her eyes off it, she reached out and pulled it free from where it had been stuck between bedframe and wall, missed by the menials. In her trembling palm lay a handful of dark strands, a color she knew, a hue she'd inherited. At one end of the hank, a crusty, brownish substance clung to the hair. She looked from it to the brownish smear on the wall where she'd found it and felt that dark pit at her center open wider, yawning huge and terrible.

Her breathing quickened and just to confirm what she already knew in her heart, she licked the stain on the strands in her hand. She knew that coppery tang anywhere.

Speaking to the turian she knew must still be in the room, though she couldn't even hear him breathing, she whispered, "It's like . . . hot and cold knives _burnin_' me at the same time. Like my own guts wanna rise up and choke me with filth. Like I gotta _do_ some'ut, _kill_ some'ut or-or . . . _explode_." She tried to pack that word with the images that came to mind: Towering infernos, shattered worlds, oceans of blood.

He seemed to hesitate, if his soft intake of breath told true.

"It's called hate." The word lay dead on the air.

Hate. Hate. _Hate. _A good word. A perfect word for the abyss full of pure bad seething at the core of her. "They kill't her for what I done. For lettin'em know how to hurt me. Not just phys-ickal-like, but the me inside. The me they can't touch." Oh, if only her hand at her chest could cease the roaring of her heart for blood and death. "And worse, they done it cause to thems she don't-she don't _matter."_

"Yes. They hurt you in ways that can't be seen with your eyes. If you let them." 'Gan's voice sounded toneless. She turned her blazing eyes upon him and saw him flinch. The turian crossed his arms as though warding off a chill and said, "Forget her. Forget all about her."

For a moment, all that black rage focused on 'Gan and she saw him dead in her mind's eye, saw her little hands pulling out his squishy innards. Hollowing him out like she'd been hollowed. All that blue smeared all over her. She wanted it. _She wanted it so bad!_

She stopped suddenly, only two feet from 'Gan, her fists balled up and ready to kill. Shocked, she let her fists fall back to her sides. The tears came back as she realized what she had almost done. Or tried to do. Without 'Gan, she'd be alone. Utterly alone. But all that bad feeling was still there, gnawing on her insides. Souring her meat. Making her . . . _wrong_.

It made her wonder if there hadn't been more to her once. Long ago, before the knowing.

Arms came around her, strong arms in purple armor. She froze as she opened eyes she hadn't known she shut to see her handler kneeling, embracing her.

It hurt so much to be held like that, in her old mama's room where the woman had held her like so, touched her like so. The girl's mouth opened in a silent scream as she clung to 'Gan, spending her grief and rage in a torrent of tears.

She came to sense slowly and 'Gan set her back on her feet, which she'd lost somehow. She looked around the room, a stranger's room now and drew a deep, hitching breath. "I-I can't, 'Gan. F'get, I mean. If'n I did, it'd be like she never was. Like she never counted."

'Gan stood and loomed, a silent, sorrowful witness to her pain. She continued, "But it's safe to care now. To 'member now. They can't hurt her no more on account a'me."

She led them out of that room without looking back, swearing to herself that it would be the last time she hurt like that.

Never again.


	5. Chapter 5

"You're late," groused the salarian in the bar.

"Only by an hour. Relax, Chojo."

"This her?" Huge, jewel-like eyes tried to pin her, but she'd seen more intimidating stares on the faces of children.

'Gan sat in the booth and lifted her to his knee. He favored the girl with a hearty smile she didn't return and said, "Yep, my little sister."

Chojo laughed with him over her head. "Hope she's as savage as they say. Got a lot riding on her."

She felt the temptation to brag, but stifled it, running her fingers over the new twisted scar on her thigh. Long and deep, that wound had nearly unzipped her to the bone. Only luck kept the krogan who'd done it from nicking her femoral artery.

That had been a long, long bout. Going on an hour. In a huge arena set up so she might have a fighting chance against the giant. All crates and climbs and ladders. She'd had to use all her cunning to make it, to down that monster. And even then, as she'd collected her accolades, the beast she'd thought she'd killed stood back up and stomped out.

And the fights had only gotten harder since. It seemed to the girl that since she'd defied death so many times before, the ones organizing the matches wanted to push. To see how far they could go before she fell. So the odds stacked against her increased with every engagement.

"Sure you don't wanna hike her up into the higher brackets? Bigger stakes, higher payoffs. Seeing as she won her bout against that big bastard, Pakth, she might do well."

"No deal. She's only five, still way too young to compete against all those clanless krogan. Gotta be a fight with a bit of fairness, not just a massacre." 'Gan laughed to hide his nervousness, but she heard it all the same, just the tiniest hint of uncertainty.

Chojo remained oblivious. "Alright, it's your loss. So, you called me, Keigan. What can an honest, simple bookkeeper do for his long-absent friend?"

"Having trouble picking out anything in that sentence that's true, Chojo. But hey, I won't hold it against you." 'Gan slapped the salarian on the back, disarming the barb with congeniality. "Boss Silva wants to step up the operation."

"Oh?"

"Bigger fights. Better venues."

"Might attract the Establishment," warned the salarian, lips pursed. The girl watched greed float around in those huge eyeballs. She knew 'Gan could get this male to agree to slaughtering his own littles if there were credits enough on the line.

"The boss will handle that. Meanwhile, I need you to run the numbers. Count our assets. Get logistics worked out on groupings, timetables and other interested parties. She wants a full accounting before the next step."

"Which is?"

The turian smirked. "Legalization."

Chojo gasped. "No one high up is going to let us hawk our particular brand of entertainment on the open market."

"Again, not our concern. Our job is to get ready for when it happens." 'Gan leaned back and ordered a drink from a passing waitress. Then he turned back to Chojo. "Find us some heavy hitters among the Corbies' rivals."

"Who's going to talk them into coming along?"

"Mogul's handling that. He's got contacts."

The girl listened as they spoke of Silva's holdings and assets in candid disregard of her presence. She gave them no clue that she even paid attention and somewhere, deep in her mind, wheels began to turn.

After an eternity, the men's business concluded and their conversation moved on to other things. Namely, her.

Chojo sipped from his glass as he eyed the girl. "So, girl, excited about the fight tonight?"

She shrugged, but when prompted by her handler for more, she said, "Don't seem like much a'one."

"Oh, but I hear he's one that was handpicked by you and Keigan." He was baiting her, she knew, but she couldn't help but feel a little intrigued.

"Yeah? Who?" Of the many littles she'd recruited, which would face her in the arena tonight?

'Gan shook his head at her, telling her that she knew better, that she knew the fighters stayed secret from her until the last moment. The bettors knew, the promoters knew, but the fighters didn't. It added an delicious edge of uncertainty to whet the spectator's appetites.

She squirmed on her handler's leg and tried to quash the unforgiving anger at 'Gan's reticence.

"I know your game, Chojo. Trying to sabotage my fighter, hm? Make her lose confidence then go bet on the other guy?"

The salarian held his hands up in the face of the turian's accusation. "No, no, nothing like that. I was just hoping for a taste of whatever brilliance you seem to have uncovered in her. Get a look at that fire that keeps her alive."

The girl didn't feel it in her any more. The thing he wanted to see had died in the months since her mama- No, she didn't want to think about that now. Only in solitude, where the dark made such dangerous thoughts safer.

She missed it, though. Missed it during the fighting. It had kept her warm.

Now she only felt the cold absence of it.

She frowned a tiny frown and said, looking right at the salarian, "Don't matter. They's all die the same."

Chojo crowed as though she'd performed a trick, his thin lips stretching into a ghastly leer. "That's it! Oh, you are a killer, aren't you. I just may have to double my bet. Fight hard, little beast, fight well."

With that, 'Gan picked her up and put her onto a pauldron. She looked back and waved at Chojo. It never hurt to play the showman. The flashier the kill, the louder the cheers.

They wandered through the entertainment district without purpose. 'Gan pointed out things she might find interesting, but she barely saw them.

Sometime later, he prodded her in the side. Hard, almost enough to unseat her from her precarious perch. She shot him an infuriated glare as she struggled to right herself. "Gan!"

"Thought you'd died up there." If he took offence at her insolent bark, he didn't show it past his mild expression.

"Didn't."

"I've been talking to you this whole time and nothing. Not a grunt or a laugh or anything."

"Thinkin'."

"Never good. Don't think." He sat on a stool at an outdoor restaurant whose sign boasted noodles. Setting her on an adjacent seat, he ordered for them both from the cook. Then she heard 'Gan sigh and turned her head a bit to see him looking at her askance. "Don't think. Just do. Are you worried about the fight tonight?"

"No. Don't matter if'n I picked this fighter or not. We's all gonna die in 'rena anyways."

"Talk like that and you'll be defeated before the fight even begins." An awkward silence fell as their noodles arrived. 'Gan slurped his with gusto, making faces at her as he did. Trying to make her laugh, she knew and though she did find his antics funny, no mirth rang in the deadness of her belly. Like a muffled bell, it just fell flat and disappeared. 'Gan sighed again, sadder this time. "Not even a smile for silly ol'Gan, eh?"

She tried, stretching her lips in what she thought a smile might be, but it felt false. Smiles just happened. Manufacturing them just didn't feel right. So she stopped her attempt to appease her handler and ate in solemn silence.

Though the thought plagued her that something between 'Gan and her had been lost. Something precious.

She wondered if he felt it, too. Her eyes caught his and she knew then that he did.

* * *

They gave her the spiked gloves this time. All along the fingertips, knuckles and forearms, steel spikes gleamed, set in metal bracers. Out of the armor pile, she picked out chestguard and greaves and put them on over her rough, torn clothing. Her belly and thighs lay exposed, but then again, they typically were. The spectators liked a lot of flesh showing. The more opportunity for a fighter to get bled, the better.

'Gan offered her a helm, a simple skullcap, but she shook her head. Then she stood back and warmed up, bouncing in place, throwing punches at the air, leaping to kick it as well. The armor sat well, the gloves light and comfortable. She had full range of motion and a desire to put it into action. Approval filled her as she gave one more spinning backfist.

"Lessons did you good, didn't they," 'Gan commented, watching her. He seemed both proud and sad.

"Yeah. I liked marsh-martial arts," she offered, after a moment spent looking back at him.

He smiled a pained smile and looked away. "They're not going to let me sit in your corner for this one."

Alarmed, she frowned at him. "Why not?"

"Handlers stay in a certain area now, so they don't try to . . . interfere." The way he said it made her think that maybe other pairings might be as tightly bonded as they.

"Too close-like. Start to worryin' and then don't know what might happen, right?" She smiled at his surprise and felt a warmth for him then that she'd forgotten. She made her voice mock-gruff. "Still gonna watch though, right? Spot them areas I's could use a sharpening?"

He laughed, a short, light chuckle. "Of course. Least I could do for my little sister."

She laughed too, and felt a bit lighter than she had in months. "Hey, 'Gan?"

"Yeah?"

"Maybe after this, we's can, we's can . . . _talk _more?" Timidly, she risked a glance at him and the relief in his eyes made her heart thump.

"We can try." He picked her up and set her on the ramp up to the arena. She watched him look around before leaning back in to whisper at her ear, "_Be careful."_

Puzzling that out, she watched him spin and leave, his legs jerking in that way they did when he had troubles on his mind. Shaking her head, she ascended onto the killing ground of this stadium.

And stadium it was, packed with more people than she'd ever seen in one place. Someone shouted over a loudspeaker, "_There she is! Undefeated for over four years! One of the first, one of the best! Boss Silva's own natural-born killer, the Beeeeeaaaast!"_

_That's new._ She'd never been announced before. And that name, the Beast? They must mean her, but she didn't have a name. It sat ill on her, the name and this crowded mass. She dismissed it as unimportant.

Movement at the other end caught her attention. Thin and pale, a drell dressed in the same sort of ragtag she wore approached. A face she knew, one she hadn't seen in nearly a year strode up the far ramp and bent to squeeze between the ropes. If not for his rare coloring and pink eyes, she would never have recognized him.

No longer the angry, brash drell that had accosted her in a paddock full of littles, Kale strode forth with deadly purpose. His eyes never left hers. His expression stayed blank and empty. He stopped ten feet from her and she took a moment to look him over.

The hardness remained, but the fire had gone out, much like her own had. Across his shoulders, he carried a long, bladed weapon. A machete, she remembered now, thick and mean. She'd seen wounds made by one before, the way the chop of it almost took . . . wedges out of people.

Dimly, she heard him announced as the Dragon and wondered what a Dragon could be. Regardless, she glanced around but did not find another figure trailing after this one. And that struck her as wrong.

Her curiosity got the better of her. "Medea?"

The boy's eyelids flicked down for just a second. "Dead."

_Some'un cut this boy in half._ She shivered as she thought it. The crowds started chanting their names. She could see that they stood about equal in favor among the throng and wondered if today would be the day it all ended. Maybe he had learned a thing or two, enough to take her. How that tickled her with the thought that it might not be so bad. She took a deep breath and said, "For all it be worth, I's sorry."

He nodded in acceptance of her words, though she saw no forgiveness there.

Then he started to circle and so did she, keeping a wary eye on that machete as it came down off that shoulder and swept through the space between them. She heard the soft hiss of it parting the air.

All at once, he came at her, swinging down on her with all his might. She rolled to the side and came up to block his follow up. The blade rang against her bracer, the shock of it running up her whole arm. She felt her fingers go numb and gave a growl as she struck out with the other hand. Her fist collided with his stomach and he fell back with a 'Oof!' Red flowed out of the puncture wounds in his abdomen.

When she came at him to press her advantage, that wicked knife rose up between them, flicking through the air like a striking snake. Only by throwing all her weight back onto her heels and sucking in her gut did she not get split open. The edge of it kissed her belly and she hissed as blood began to weep from the shallow cut.

She dodged the series of stabs that followed, backing further and further to her side of the arena. She cursed that machete, the boy already had several inches on her, but the long knife gave him a huge advantage of range. Feinting right, she then spun left, the back of her hand cracking against his jaw. The spikes tore open his cheek.

He reversed his momentum with a howl and slapped the flat of his machete square on her ear. Pain exploded in her head and she reeled back, dizzy and confused. She regained her senses to see the knife dive in to try to open up her throat. Batting it aside, she ran to get some distance between she and the drell, who stalked toward her with a superior smirk on his bloody face.

Shaking the last of the cobwebs free, the girl eyed Kale and that steel he wielded so well. How her guts twisted with fear and a darker emotion. That hate that of late had taken possession of her started to rise, smelling blood no doubt. Her vision narrowed on him, tinting red around the edges. She wanted to murder this boy, scrape that smug look right off his face with one swipe of her gloves.

But first things first, that knife had to go. She ignored the crowd's jeers as she scooted back, keeping the same distance between them while she came up with a plan.

He tracked her easily, showing a nimbleness that brooked ill for her if she ever let him get back in range to use that knife. She had to get in close without getting skewered. But Kale still looked strong, well-defended against her, and calm. Inspiration struck. Maybe she could rattle him, make him lose that too-sharp edge.

Summoning the ugliness in her, she said, "Did she squeal at the end?"

Kale halted, face twisting, then tried to rush her. She slid around him easily and continued her browbeating, "I's bet sh'did. Bet she squealed plenty! Was you there to hear it? 'Course you were."

The audience howled at this change of tactic and how it brought the drell's fury forth.

His swings became wilder and she fought to stay away, she took a few more hits as she continued, "Did she squeal like that when the rapers got'er?"

With a scream of pure hate, Kale came at her. This time, she stuck to her ground and let him come. Both his arms raised in an overhead chop, he had far too much momentum to stop or dodge when she launched herself at his knees. They went down together, but that didn't halt the descent of the knife.

The machete bit deeply into her back, making her cry out in agony. She cut it off by mauling the inside of her cheek. Kale wiggled the knife back and forth to try to free it from where it had got lodged in her shoulder blade. She rolled to pin it under her, giving another scream as that action popped it loose to slice her skin laterally. Bleeding freely now, she nearly swooned from the pain.

Kale pulled at the knife handle, but she rolled to keep most of her weight on it. He kicked her in the ribs, but stubborn, she just snarled. Twisting onto her side, she brought down her fist with all her strength, the spikes leading. They connected with the blade above the handle, sparking, and shattered it. Kale rolled away with a surprised squawk, as his yanking suddenly met with no resistance.

He stared at the knife handle in his hand, disbelieving. The girl took up the fallen blade and threw it out of the ring, not even caring if it hit someone. She turned back to see Kale stand up, then nearly drop again as one of his knees refused to hold him up.

She could have rushed in and finished it then, but something in her demanded more. The hate howled for her victory to be total. She spat and hissed, "Or maybe, she _didn't_ squeal. Maybe when they was fuckin' her, makin' her suck their cocks, she _liked_ it."

She saw it then. Hate answering hate, and all of it pointed right at her. He stepped toward her. First, a slow step, then another, soon he hobbled at her as fast as his gimpy leg would allow. His lips pulled back from his teeth in an expression past reason, just pure and vicious loathing.

Without the strength left to dodge, she kicked out and caught his weak knee just as he closed. Crumpling, he fell atop her, clawing and punching, trying to silence her.

Staring into his mad eyes, she fought back. Not a pretty fight of skill any more, just a dirty brawl. She kicked him, bit him and punched him all over, landing quite a few directly to his groin, but he was far too gone to even care and returned the favor. To her surprise, getting kneed there hurt like a bastard, 'specially with an armor-clad knee. All their open wounds made getting a grip anywhere tricky business, slick blood coated everything.

Finally, she got her hands around his throat, the claws of her gloves digging into the ridges there. His eyes bugged and he flopped weakly to try to dislodge her, but she held fast and started pulling. In a panic, he tried to roll away, but her legs came up to trap his arms and hold him against her. She started using that leverage to lend her forearms some strength, pushing her hips up and curling her spine. She felt it when the flesh started tearing. A fresh deluge poured over her and just as the light went out of his eyes, she rasped, "_Your sib sucks cocks in Hell!"_

Then his throat ripped out in her hands and Kale went limp. Done. Dead.

She closed her eyes against the ache that welled up. Without her meaning it to, her hand came up and touched his cheek, touched the tears there. She hadn't even noticed them til now. How he must have missed his twin, like the girl missed her mama. And the ugly hate in her used that to end him. If she knew what tragedy meant, she'd have said it then. But she marked the feeling well, even without the word for it.

Despair mixed with longing and a vague understanding that it shouldn't be like this. But she had nothing to compare it to. This was all she knew.

So she embraced the beautiful dead boy and let her exhaustion and blood loss take her away to a faraway, perhaps imagined place where there lived a thing that was to hate that not-despair was to despair.


	6. Chapter 6

She woke to the feeling of a hand on her chest. Broad palm, two fingers and a thumb. Realizing it must be 'Gan, she relaxed once more. The buzz of nanodocs filled her meat. She must have gotten pretty hurt if medi-gel couldn't fix it. The fight . . ..

Ah, she remembered now. Fighting Kale, flinging those ugly words at him like bullets. How they'd struck him so close to his heart. Why did she do that? She'd never thought she could be like that. Cruel like that. The worst part was some ugly thing in her had enjoyed it. Craved it.

All in the name of survival.

She must have made some noise, because the hand on her chest slid to one side a little. The bed shifted. That hand slipped up, hesitating as it did, and slid around her neck.

Shock clouded her mind for a second, then her limbs loosened once more as a profound sense of acceptance fell over her. Relief, even. _Do it, 'Gan._

A tear slipped from her eye as she lifted her chin to give him better access to her tender throat.

The turian at her bedside breathed a little faster, in hitching bursts. It seemed forever they stayed like that. His hand twitched as it tightened a little.

Then, it fell away and she opened her eyes to see her caretaker hunched in on himself, turned away from her, with his hands over his face. She licked her lips and whispered, "Gan?"

He shuddered and breathed, "I can't do this any more. I-I just can't."

It occurred to her then that he was as trapped as she, just as much a slave as she. To forces she didn't understand. Her hand found his wrist and pulled one of his hands away from his face. So she could see him. His plates, once covered in purple paint, lay bare. He must have scraped it all off sometime after the fight. But why?

A noise, high and low at the same time, came out of him, long and keening. A sad sound, so sad that it hurt her to hear it. Then words, so soft she had to strain to listen. "Every time you go in there, I tell myself 'she's going to die. Get over it.' But then, the blood and screaming starts, and I'm just a little closer to coming undone.

"And every time you come back out, a little less of you is there. I'm watching you die fight by fight, little by little. Better if you'd died at the beginning, in one of those early matches. Then I wouldn't have had to see that, hear that-" he said, waving his arm in a vague motion. She knew he meant when she'd let the darkness come boiling out of her mouth. "Then I wouldn't have started to care so much."

The irony made her smile a bit. The one who'd told her to not care had cared all along. Then, her heart sank. "S'mean you's gonna leave?"

'Gan stilled and finally looked at her, the answer written in his eyes. He wanted to, so badly, but . . ..

"Don' leave me, 'Gan. Not t'be alone at the end. Please," she begged without shame, grasping his talons with her hand. "Ain't got much 'rena-fightin' left in me. Just a little while longer an' I'll be gone. Like Kale. Then you'll be okay without little sister messin' with your brain. Then you can forget me-"

"Sh, shhh." He pulled her into his side and held her there, wiping away the tears on her cheeks. "I'll stay. For as long as you need me, we'll be together. 'Kay?"

She nodded, her face buried against his ribs.

He snorted a laugh. "I've seen so many friends die. Some went in really awful ways. Who knew I'd be hurting so bad over a little scrap of a slave girl . . .?" His words trailed off. Then he said, voice all queer and tight with fear, "You know what really scares me, little sister?"

"What?"

He clutched at her and though it stung her many wounds, she held him back as hard as she could.

"What if you don't die?"

At thoughts of a long future of _this, _or worse, she trembled. Would the badness eat her whole, so that it was all that remained of her? A shell in the shape of her that walked and talked and killed? A vessel for hate?

Would that make her like Silva?

She mewled in terror and 'Gan soothed her as best he could.

After a long while, she felt a little better and asked, "'Gan, what's _not_-hate?"

He hesitated. "I shouldn't. Slaves who don't know it have happier lives."

"Then I's mus' have it already, 'cuz I never been much happy."

The turian pressed his lip plates to her temple and rumbled. "Its name is love."

Love. Another perfect word. Hate inverted. Having one meant having the other. "I love you, 'Gan."

He huffed a laugh. "Can you keep a secret?" At her nod, he smiled. "I love you, too, little sister."

"Bossilba can't ever know." Solemn, because she couldn't stand the thought of that woman finding out and what evils she might do because of it.

"Never," he agreed. A pact made, a deal sealed. And for a time, they fashioned a haven of small happinesses where others' eyes could not pry, with no witnesses to speak of it.

In times of woe and heartache, they had in each other a constant. And most times, it was enough to defeat the darkness.

* * *

'Gan fell to the heavy blow. She heard it, in the dark, but didn't leave her corner to see if he was alright. She'd been told to wait there for the next fighter.

The girl stood in mute shock as Gargath swung toward the exit and lumbered off. Around her, on the slave ship, sirens wailed. In the distance, she heard gunshots and screaming. And a krogan bellow.

She wondered if it had anything to do with what 'Gan had been yelling about when he'd stormed in here. Gargath had told him to leave and he hadn't, shouting, "Don't gas the hold!" Then some words that made no sense to the girl, like 'surrender', 'unnecessary death', and one that sounded like 'justicar', all screamed in a voice that rang with panic and something else, that not-despair she'd never found the name of.

But she knew what gassing the hold meant. It's Gargath's job if the cops ever came knocking to get rid of anyone who could name names, like every slave on the ship.

'Gan's footsteps had pounded toward where the girl stood. That's when the krogan had hit him. She knew that sound well, the sound of fist cracking against skull. And she knew to fear that sound, fear of what it could mean. She'd never before contemplated that 'Gan would die before her, not when she danced with death on a daily basis. But now that fear paralyzed her.

Sometime later, more footsteps approached, lighter, with a softer clicking sound than merc boots. She clutched her knife tighter in her hand as a faint blue glow appeared, limning a female figure in leather armor. A biotic? She'd never had to fight a biotic before.

At the woman's feet, 'Gan lay crumpled in a heap. The woman flipped him onto his back and started looking through his pockets.

Outrage flickered in the girl and she bolted toward that light, knife up and ready to cut her down. Suddenly, that blue glow flared, blinding her. She flailed as her feet left the ground. When her vision cleared, she found herself floating in a big, blue ball. She tried to flap her way out of it, but to no avail. Her lazy course brought her face to upside-down face with an asari.

Her first instinct screamed '_Bossilba!'_

But she quickly realized that it couldn't be her master, for other than being blue, this woman looked nothing like her. Plus, the woman studied her with something like honest curiosity and empathy. Her regal head sat on her long neck at a graceful incline. The girl stifled a laugh picturing the asari try to tilt her head all the way over to see her 'right.'

Something else, the asari looked older than her years, ancient wisdom wrought of pain shone out of her like a beacon. No falseness there, no hollowness. Just a beauty that transcended physical form, an inner peace and firm resolve.

It touched the girl at her heart. How she wished she was strong like that, full of whatever this woman was full of and not empty any more. And so, without meaning to, she reached out and whispered, "_Pretty_!"

Her captor chuffed, blinking, then said in a stern tone, "Drop the knife."

"Okay." Then she saw what the big blue light clearly illuminated. 'Gan lay close by, his head caved in by that krogan's fist. Her heart sputtered. "'Gan!"

The asari looked that way, too, and asked, "Keigan was your master?"

"Yes." She sniffled, loud to her ears._ Here I am, blubbering like the littlest. _The thought sparked a fresh wave of tears. "Gar-guff kilt'em. Cuz the bettin' weren't done."

"If I let you down, will you be calm?"

"Yes."

The asari studied her. "You won't attack me again?"

"Won't." She turned her head this way and that to keep the woman in sight. The blue bubble hummed as the girl spun within it.

Suddenly, it popped. The girl fell on her rump, then sprang to her feet, running to 'Gan. She patted the dead turian's face, heart sore. "'Gan was a good'un. Never hit me much. Never let no one touch me. 'Only the 'renas,' he said. 'Make me coin in the pit and I'll take care of you. Like you was fambly.'"

His first promise to her, long ago when they'd first met.

"You said Gargath killed Keigan because the betting wasn't finished."

"Yeah, I fight, they watch on holo and bet, only it never were finished, 'cuz the alarums went off. I only came after you, 'cuz I thought you was the next . . .," she fought with her clumsy tongue, "cha-llen-ger. Gotta be fast. Gotta be quick to win. I'm sorry, Pretty."

When she stood and came to the asari's side, looking up at her with wonder, she felt a stirring under her breastbone. A feeling long forgotten. A memory of another woman looking down at her like so. She saw something swimming around in her deep blue eyes that called to her.

Then her eye drew back to see 'Gan. "'Gan said a few more fights, then he and me'd go see the biggest ocean ever and meet the boss lady."

The asari's brows drew up in surprise. "The boss lady?"

"Yeah, name of Bossilba. She's a pretty blue lady. Like you. Got white marks on her cheeks," said the girl, demonstrating with two diagonal slashes under her eyes, "like this."

"Did Keigan ever tell you the name of the place he was going to meet Silva?" Those blue eyes seemed hungry to know.

"Don' rightly know the name, but 'Gan showed me on the big glowing map."

She watched the asari think for a long while, then the woman said, "It will take some hours to arrange passage for the other freed slaves and to inform local authorities to what has transpired here. Then, I will leave. I give you a choice. You can go with the others and possibly locate your people; a home, a family. Or . . . you can help me find Silva."

"Ain't never had no 'people', not like them out there. I's slave-born." It made her wonder why this woman sought Silva, but really, there could be only one reason why. "You gonna kill Silba?"

"Yes." Truth. The girl could hear it plain. "Does that bother you?"

She shrugged. "D'pends, I guess. Some'uns deserve it."

"Indeed, some do."

For someone like this to want Silva so bad, something had to have started it. "She musta done somethin' awful."

"Yes, she did."

The child considered her, then thrust her arms up in the air. As expected, the woman lifted her, but when the woman put her to a hip instead of taking her all the way up to a shoulder, she blinked in shock. It felt natural and so familiar. And for once didn't trigger a fear of falling. She felt . . . safe.

"What's your name, child?"

"Slave-born ain't got no names. Garg-uff called me Rat sometimes. 'Gan told folk I was his little sister. He got a big ol' laugh out of that every time. Silly old 'Gan." Thoughts that made the tingling in her eyes start again.

The asari looked at her askance, like 'Gan used to do so many times. Her beautiful blue face then smiled and warmth filled the little girl. "Then, Sister it is."

Sister. _Sister._ Like she'd had a name all along. One 'Gan gave her. One that had a meaning above a simple combination of sounds.

Family.


	7. Chapter 7

**Epilogue:**

"A prayer candle?"

Sister turned to the speaker, her teacher, Astraea, and nodded. Then she looked back at the small and crumbly bit of wax she'd set among the thousands in this hall. "Yes."

"Among the fallen Innocent? For whom do you light this candle?"

"The one who watched over me before I came to you." With that, she lit it with a long taper that sat close by for just that purpose.

Astraea made a sound in her throat indicating slight disapproval. "Seems a little far to stretch for a mercenary slave handler. Not exactly innocent, in the opinion of most."

Sister smiled. "No, he, in many ways, was an evil man. He killed, enslaved, lied, stole, cheated. If there ever was a crime, he probably did it. At least once."

"Then why pray for him?" Her mentor looked around at the mountain of light that covered this part of the congress of martyrs. "Why set a candle for him here, among so many more deserved, many of whom are your sister justicars. Those who died in the execution of their calling. Whose tremendous deeds lit the universe as these waxy pillars light this great hall."

The young human woman laughed. "It is a . . . small candle, with a really, really small flame."

"Still didn't answer my question." Astraea said.

"Why pray for Keigan, who bade me kill for Silva's profit?" She hummed in thought. "Because he was only a man. Because he chose to care for a skinny, starving little cull like me. Because without him, I'd have died so many times over. Or become something even less human. Because, in the end, he chose to stand true. He loved me. He saved me. And I loved him."

A long silence reigned. Astraea looked at the grubby candle for a moment, then reached into her own pocket, pulling out two, pure white tapers, identical to the thousands before them. Without a word, she picked up and snuffed the little candle and handed Sister one of the ones in her hand.

Sister looked from it to her mentor, then put it where the shoddy candle used to be. She lit it and put her hands together, saying a prayer to the Goddess for her dear, departed Keigan.

Nearby, Astraea did the same, whispering Cassia, her dead daughter's name on the wind. When the two women stood together once more, the asari said, "No half-measures, Sister."

Chagrin filled her. "I know. I just didn't think them-_the_ others would approve. I thought no one would notice a small candle."

"No one will deny your grief. Do as it moves you to do." Her mentor put a hand to her shoulder and squeezed. "In helping you stay alive as best he could, and loving you as he did, he did much to redeem himself. And without hope of redemption, we have nothing."

The justicar left Sister to her thoughts.

The wind played about her face, teasing her long, dark hair into her face. She brushed it back as she thought of Astraea's words. Yes, redemption. Available to one and all. As well as that thing she finally knew the word for:

Hope.

* * *

**A/N: So, this story sort of hurt me as I was writing it. Ouch. Anyway, thanks for holding out this long if you have and I hope you enjoyed it! Please feel free to leave a review or critique as the spirit moves you. It's just possible that I might round out this collection with another story about Keigan. Maybe. . .. Mmm-possibly. Who knows? Me, that's who. Ha!**


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